of Ithaca, Laertes’ realm, and curse the land that nursed cruel Ulysses. Soon, too, Mount Leucata’s storm-capped peaks come in view, and Apollo’s shrine, dreaded by sailors. Hither we wearily sail, and draw near the little town; the anchor is cast from the prow, the sterns stand ranged on the shore.

“So having at last won land unhoped for, we offer to Jove dues of cleansing, kindle the altars with offerings, and throne the Actian shores in the games of Ilium. My comrades strip and, sleek with oil, engage in their native wrestling bouts, glad to have slipped past so many Argive towns, and kept on their flight through the midst of foes. Meanwhile the sun wheels round the mighty circuit of the year, and icy winter ruffles the waters with northern blasts. A shield of hollow brass, once borne by great